


Chained to a Lie

by jortsbian



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Canon Compliant, Coming Out, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Mutual Pining, Not A Fix-It, Period-Typical Homophobia, Richie Tozier-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-16 16:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20864360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jortsbian/pseuds/jortsbian
Summary: It made sense. Of course it made sense. Richie had the endless capacity to care for his friends, but he’d always been focused on Eddie.or 5 times the Losers found out about Richie's feelings for Eddie and 1 time Richie told Eddie himself





	Chained to a Lie

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Cold Love by Rainbow Kitten Surprise, which is an excellent reddie song if you haven't heard it yet

**Beverly  
1.**

“I can’t believe you guys are making me walk home. This sucks. This is literally the worst.”

Beverly rolled her eyes at Eddie’s complaining. His capacity for endless chatter was usually endearing, but at times like this, she could honestly say there were better ways to spend her time. She spared a glance at Stan walking next to her, looking similarly annoyed.

“Hey, don’t look at me! It’s not my fault Stanley thought it was a good idea to ride his bike over a nail,” Richie exclaimed. Bev suppressed the urge to roll her eyes again as Eddie directed his glare toward Richie.

“Richie, literally no one was blaming you for popping Stan’s tire,” she said. Richie turned around to look at her, the hint of a pout crossing his face. She ignored him in favor of Stan. “Hey, are you gonna be able to get that fixed? I don’t really know much about stuff like this.”

“Yeah, I think so,” Stan sighed. “I’ll probably have to use my Bar Mitzvah money to fix it, though.”

He kicked a rock across the street dejectedly. Bev couldn’t help but feel bad for him. Apparently Richie couldn’t, either, because he turned back with a pursed expression that soon broke into a grin.

“Hey, Stan, don’t worry about it! We’ll just ask Eddie’s mom for some money! You know she can’t resist giving me what I want, if you get what I’m saying,” Richie said, nudging Eddie with his elbow and winking obnoxiously.

“God, you are so gross! Literally why would she do that?” Eddie demanded, glare back on Richie in full force. “She doesn’t even like you! She thinks you’re a bad influence. Why the fuck would she pay to fix Stan’s bike?”

“She’d do anything to get a piece of me, and I’m always willing to help out ol’ Stan. He’s the peanut butter to my hotdog, if you get my drift.”

“The—_what?_ Are you saying you put peanut butter on your dick?”

Bev snorted. She glanced at Stan, who looked entirely unamused by the conversation happening in front of them.

“You’re okay, right?” Bev asked over Richie’s loud claims that _peanut butter is a condiment, Eddie, you’ve just gotta try it!_ “I know Richie was being an asshole, but you know he was just trying to cheer you up.”

Stan bit back a smile.

“Yeah, I know. He does his best,” Stan mused. “He was definitely trying to get Eddie’s attention, too, though. He is the least transparent person in the world when it comes to that.”

Bev laughed. She and Stan chatted amiably as Richie and Eddie bickered about whether dressings could be called “salad sauce” or not and whether that was a good pairing with a good ol’ PBJ&H (_peanut butter, jelly, and hot dog,_ as Richie explained while Eddie kicked gravel at him).

Finally, they came to a stop in front of Stan's house. Stan said his goodbyes and they waved him off, wishing him luck on fixing his tire. Beverly expected the others to hop on their bikes and head their separate ways, but instead Eddie turned to Richie with an expression that was simultaneously determined and tender. The contrast between it and his glare was stark, but Bev thought it looked pretty similar, too. 

"Hey, what are you doing later?" Eddie asked, voice low enough that she knew he wasn't talking to her. She smiled. The two of them had tunnel vision on each other and she doubted they'd even realized it.

"I dunno. Your mom, probably?" Richie replied with a grin. Eddie whacked him on the arm.

"Don't be gross, dude! I'm trying to ask if you want to hang out!" Eddie scowled, but she could see the glint of something pleased in his eye. 

"Yeah, of course! I'll have to cancel my plans with Mrs. K, but hopefully she can handle one day without me."

Beverly chuckled over Eddie's complaints of _you are so not funny, my mom doesn't even like you._ Richie beamed at him, looking almost thrilled to spend time with Eddie even though they'd spent the whole day together with the Losers, and oh. _Oh._

Suddenly Beverly understood why they were always so eager to be together, why Richie always called Eddie's name at the first sign of danger, why Eddie always seemed so determined to have Richie's attention on him. She wasn't sure they knew it just yet, but once she realized, it was clear: the two of them had a connection much deeper than friendship.

Richie and Eddie had finally stopped bickering for long enough to make a plan for the rest of the day. Just as Beverly was debating whether to sneak away or wait for them to remember they weren't alone, Richie turned back to her.

"Hey, Bev, want us to take you home?" he asked as Eddie hopped onto his bike. 

"Nah, I'm alright," she replied. "Wouldn't want to take away from your time together."

She winked. Richie furrowed his eyebrows in confusion and then gaped, understanding dawning on his face. His eyes darted between her and Eddie as he fumbled for words. She snickered, waving goodbye as Eddie turned around impatiently and asked Richie if he was _coming or not, asshole, you're so slow._ Richie spared Beverly one last glance and gave her what was probably the most conflicted wave in history. She laughed again as she turned to leave.

Judging by Richie's reaction, she was dead-on. They definitely hadn't done anything about it yet, but the two of them were sure to fall for each other if they hadn't already. The thought made her happy—if anyone deserved to be happy, it was her friends, and those two already bickered like an old married couple. She could picture them older, still bickering and pestering each other but caring deeply. It was a nice thought.

**Ben  
2.**

It was a slow September afternoon when Ben finally put two and two together.

The weather was cooling down, but it wasn’t too cold to be outside, so the Losers opted to spend the day in the clubhouse. They had joked around at first, but after a few hours everyone had found something to do. The room was quiet, no one’s voices raised above a whisper. Ben thought it might’ve been a mutual understanding to be kind to Eddie, who was napping on a pile of pillows they had dragged down after the hammock broke, but knew it was more likely that everyone had used up most of their energy in their rousing game of truth-or-dare-plus-would-you-rather-plus-fuck-marry-kill that had taken up most of the morning and ended when it very nearly turned into a brawl until Mike had managed to talk everyone down.

That brought them to where they were: Stan and Mike in a corner putting together a puzzle, Bill and Beverly talking about something too quietly for him to hear, Eddie sleeping peacefully on an uncomfortable-looking stack of pillows, Richie reading a comic book he’d read a hundred times, and Ben sitting next to him, trying to ignore the jealousy that panged in his heart every time he looked at Beverly and instead focus on his book. The book wasn’t very interesting, though, and every time he found himself stealing a glance at Bev instead of reading, he saw Richie doing the same to Eddie.

At first, he thought Richie was planning to wake Eddie up. He wore the same expression he always did when he looked at Eddie, which usually meant an influx of “your mom” jokes and teasing was on the way. Ben frowned, wondering if he should stop Richie if he made to wake Eddie up. He prepared to say something, but stopped when Richie just smiled softly and turned his focus back toward his comic.

Ben was, quite frankly, confused. It wasn’t often that Richie passed up on an opportunity to aggravate Eddie, but he seemed content to just observe quietly. After a moment, Ben decided to turn his focus back to his book. It was difficult, though, when he had so many thoughts running through his mind. He couldn’t help but look back at Bev, and then at Richie again. A thought nagged at the back of his mind when he saw the gentle smile on Richie’s face. It was an expression he’d seen him wear before, usually when Eddie was ragging on him for whatever reason, but it made him pause for consideration. He recognized that look; he was sure he looked the same every time he snuck a glance at Bev.

The realization dawned on him slowly, but the more he thought about it, the more sense it made. Richie was always focused on Eddie, whether it was out of concern or for an opportunity to tease him. (Not because he was the weakest link—Rich got plenty of jokes in about every loser—nor because he was the easiest to provoke, which had increasingly become Stan (the second angriest guy to ever live after Eddie). Ben understood having your thoughts revolve around one person. He wondered if he should bring it up. _Would he want to talk about it?_ he wondered, and then frowned to himself. He knew the answer: Richie almost definitely wouldn’t mention it to Ben or, though the thought made him sad, likely anyone else. He’d make some joke about Eddie’s mom or do a voice and joke about something only barely relevant. He wouldn’t want to discuss something that made him so vulnerable. After a few minutes, he made up his mind.

"Are you going to tell him?" Ben whispered, setting his book down so he could turn his full attention to Richie. Richie stiffened. Where he'd been relaxed moments before, he had suddenly grown rigid and stressed. Ben did his best to ignore the guilt that pooled in his stomach.

"What?" Richie asked, just as quiet. It was strange hearing Richie's voice sound so small and defensive. Ben was used to him being boisterous to the point of being obnoxious, but the Richie before him was anything but. It was almost jarring enough to make him drop the subject. Almost.

"Eddie," Ben elaborated. "Are you going to tell him about your feelings?" 

The comic shook in Richie's hands, papers quivering in his iron grip. Richie still stared pointedly at the pages, but Ben could see sweat beading on his forehead.

"I… I don't…" Richie mumbled. He waited for Richie to finish his thought, but nothing came. Ben huffed a small sigh.

"Richie, it's okay," Ben said. Carefully, he reached out and put a hand gently on Richie's arm. Richie jolted backwards as if he'd been slapped and finally looked at Ben. His eyes were wide with fear, and Ben raised his hands in surrender. "I'm not judging you. I was just wondering."

The look of terror seemed to lose its edge, but he still seemed anxious. He adjusted his glasses nervously and broke eye contact, looking back at the comic he'd dropped. 

"How'd you know?" Richie asked finally, quiet enough that Ben had to strain to hear him. Ben smiled softly.

"I see how you look at him," he said softly, and immediately regretted it as Richie's head snapped back up, terror back in full force. "It's not a bad thing! I doubt anyone else would even notice. I just… I know how it feels to be in love with your friend—" Richie's face flickered between shock, fear, and confusion, "—and you look at him like he hung the moon in the sky. I recognized that feeling."

"I'm not—" Richie began, shaking his head as if to clear the thoughts from his mind. After a moment, though, he sighed heavily and looked back at Ben. Sounding defeated, he asked quietly, "you don't think I'm gross? Or, or hate me?"

Ben had never heard Richie sound so vulnerable before. Even fighting Pennywise, Richie had never missed a chance to make a joke or diffuse a situation. This was new and frightening, but Ben was just proud Richie was finally able to open up, even if it was just a little. He smiled and reached out again to rest his hand on Richie's arm. This time, Richie didn't pull away.

"Of course not, Richie. None of us would hate you." Richie didn't seem to believe him, but he offered a shaky smile in return.

"'Course not! You losers couldn't hate good ol' Trashmouth if you tried. You love me too much," Richie said, grinning nervously at Ben. Ben huffed a laugh. Just like that, the tension was broken. 

"You know we do," he agreed. The lingering fear seemed to evaporate, and Richie visibly relaxed. He picked his comic back up and flipped through it. After a few minutes, he spoke up again.

"So you too, huh? Who's so special to earn our Benny Handsome's attention?" Richie asked, looking slyly at Ben. He could feel a blush crawl up his face.

"Beep beep, Richie," he mumbled. Richie gasped, throwing his hand over his chest in mock hurt.

"You can't beep me for that! You already got all my juicy secrets, you've at least gotta tell me who it is. Unless you want to hear about your mom and I last night—"

"Beep beep!" Ben laughed. "You have a point, though. I don't want to be unfair."

"Of course I do! C’mon, spill! I wanna hear all about your huge crush on me!” 

Ben glanced toward the corner of the room, where Beverly and Bill were chatting. Richie followed his gaze and frowned slightly when he realized who Ben was talking about.

"Aw, Ben, I'm sorry," Richie said. He looked like he regretted bringing it up, so before he could make a terrible joke and make it even more uncomfortable, Ben shrugged.

"As long as she's happy," he said, smiling sadly. Richie must've seen right through him, but he didn't say anything about it. 

"Well, I guess we can suffer together, Haystack. Hey, maybe we should hook up to make them jealous! It would be like—”

Ben laughed, giving him a shove and telling him through giggles to _shut up, Richie._ Richie flopped back onto the ground and snickered, tension finally gone. Ben smiled.

Maybe the conversation was worth it after all.

**Bill  
3.**

_“Billy… it’s your fault. It’s your fault I’m dead. You killed me!”_

Bill sobbed, shaking his head desperately. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from Georgie even as his skin boiled and crumbled, black ooze dripping from his mouth.

“I’m s-s-sorry, Georgie. I’m s-so sorry,” Bill cried. “It’s all my f-f-fault. I-I’m s-s…”

The words were even harder than usual to get out as he watched Georgie morph into It, sobs clogging his throat as the grotesque scene unfolded. He was finally able to tear his eyes away, was sure that It is about to get him, when suddenly he jerked awake. Richie stepped back a step from where he was standing above Bill, hands still raised from shaking Bill awake.

“Bill, dude, are you okay?” Richie whispered, already-big eyes wide with nerves as he stared at Bill. Suddenly Bill remembered where he was. Richie and Stan were staying the night, and Bill had hoped against hope that he would be fine that night, or if not, that no one else would notice. He was rarely that lucky, though.

Bill scrubbed his eyes with his palms, wiping away the traces of tears that he knew always came when he had these nightmares. He sat up and turned away from Richie, staring instead at the clock blinking 04:12AM on his nightstand. He sighed.

“I’m f-fine, Richie. Go b-back to sleep,” he mumbled, trying to ignore the ache in his chest. Richie was never very good at listening to him, though, so he wasn’t too surprised when he felt the bed dip as Richie sat down next to him. They were quiet for a few minutes, silence only broken by Stan’s soft snores from across the room. 

“Was it a nightmare?” Richie asked finally, voice low. “About… about It?”

Bill didn’t reply. He knew that his silence was answer enough.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed, you know,” Richie said. “It makes sense.”

“It d-doesn’t. It’s been a y-year, Richie.” Bill couldn’t help the bitterness that flavored his voice. Beside him, Richie shrugged.

“So?” he questioned, voice barely above a whisper. “I still get nightmares. I think we all do.”

That made Bill pause. He turned to face Richie for the first time since he’d sat down and was greeted with an earnest expression he rarely saw on Richie’s face. 

“You do?” Bill asked. “You didn’t seem that f-freaked out by the c-clowns in Neibolt.”

Richie fidgeted awkwardly. After a moment, though, he sighed.

“Not about the clowns so much. It’s more, like…” Richie trailed off, and Bill could practically see him deliberating over the words in a distinctly un-Richie-like fashion. “I always remember Eddie’s head in the couch, taunting us and gurgling up whatever gross shit that was. Or the angle his arm was at when he broke it. I set it because I wanted to help, but it was fucking scary, dude. A-And, uh, some shit Bowers said. I’ve been trying to avoid his whole gang, because I don’t wanna see what’ll happen if they catch up with me alone, even without Bowers leading them.”

His voice was low, quiet, and Bill knew Richie would never admit that in the light of day. Even so, he couldn’t stop himself from wondering what Richie meant. What had Bowers said that still scared him to the point of nightmares?

“W-What did B-Bowers say?” he asked quietly. Richie picked on a piece of lint on the hem of his boxers and sighed.

“Called me a whole bunch of things I don’t like to repeat,” Richie answered, and Bill could tell he was trying to turn it into a joke. The bitterness in his voice made it hard to laugh, though. “Some of my least favorite f-words, if you can believe it.”

Bill frowned. He knew what Richie meant, but that didn’t do much to answer his question.

“W-Why is that a b-big deal? I think he’s called a-all of us that at some p-p-point. He was just b-being an asshole.”

“Well, Big Bill, I’m afraid that for once in Henry Bowers’ life, he was right about something,” Richie said, grinning at Bill in a way that told him that sentence was _terrifying_ to say. “And I’d rather not be around to see what his lackeys want to do to the local fairy if they get their hands on me.”

Richie was smiling. He was smiling, but he was shaking, and looked ready to jump away at the slightest movement. Bill was quiet for a long moment as he processed everything Richie had just told him and decided on what to say, and Richie looked about ready to leap out of his skin. His leg bounced anxiously against the bed, and Bill put a hand on his knee, firm enough to still it but not enough to hurt. Richie froze, panic clear on his face. Across the room, Stan mumbled quietly in his sleep.

“Richie,” Bill said, and then paused, because what was he supposed to say? He was right about what those assholes would want to do if given the chance. He knew it as well as Bill did, as well as they all knew that they were usually tamer without Bowers’ influence, as well as they knew they needed to leave Derry before the town consumed them whole. He couldn’t offer false platitudes, so instead he squeezed Richie’s knee and said, “You know we won't j-judge you, right? We're all Losers, you d-don't have anything to be ashamed of.”

Richie gaped at him, eyes shining in the moonlight with unshed tears. Suddenly, Richie seemed to realize that, because he rubbed his eyes violently and shook his head to clear it. He looked back at Bill with a smile that was somewhere between timid and sly, and spoke in a terrible accent that was somewhere between southern belle and British.

“Why, William, if I didn’t know better I’d think you were coming onto me! But hey, move your hand up a bit and keep squeezing and we can go somewhere with this,” Richie joked. It was a clear deflection, and Bill grimaced.

“C-Cut it out, Richie. I’m being serious.”

Richie’s smile dropped. He patted Bill’s hand awkwardly.

“Yeah, I know. Sorry, Bill,” he mumbled. He adjusted his glasses nervously before speaking again. “If you, uh, want to talk about your nightmares, you can. I’m all ears.”

The offer surprised Bill. It wasn’t that he didn’t expect Richie to want to help—he knew as well as any of the Losers how caring Richie was beneath all the vulgar jokes and crass gestures—but that he’d almost forgotten why they were awake at 5 in the morning in the first place. He was shocked to realize that he actually felt… fine. He smiled at Richie.

“No thanks, R-Richie. I think listening to you t-talk was c-calming, for once.”

Richie laughed loudly, beaming at Bill. Stan grumbled something and rolled over.

“I told you it was a gift! I told you guys! I—”

He was cut off as Bill pulled him into a hug. For all that he and Richie disagreed, he couldn’t say that he didn’t care about him. Richie tensed for a moment and then sunk into it, wrapping Bill in a tight hug. When they split apart, Richie fidgeted for a moment before hopping off the bed.

“Well, Bill, it’s been swell, but I’ve gotta get back to my beauty sleep. We don’t want Stanley awake all on his own tomorrow, now do we?”

Bill chuckled quietly. They didn’t speak as they settled back in for bed, but that was okay. They were both fine. Bill reveled in the feeling of calm that he so rarely experienced, and mentally thanked Richie for being a good friend and talking to him, even going so far as to share deeply personal secrets. For once, he was grateful for his nightmares. 

As he was drifting off to sleep, he realized that he had forgotten to ask what the connection Eddie in Neibolt had to Bowers’ teasing, but as he fell asleep, he realized that it wasn’t too hard to put together.

**Stan  
4.**

“Dude, what’s wrong?” 

Richie ignored Stan’s question and flopped face-first onto his bed with a groan. They’d made plans to hang out after school, but when Richie didn’t show up, Stan was convinced Richie had decided to ditch. He was prepared to complain endlessly the next time they saw each other until the doorbell rang, nearly an hour after Richie was supposed to come over. Less than a minute later, the door to his room slammed open and Richie barged in, rubbing his eyes aggressively and, apparently, ignoring Stan’s questions.

He waited a minute for Richie to reply and sighed when he didn’t get as much as a gesture in response. Stan tried to be patient, he really did, but Richie was good at pushing people’s buttons. Few things annoyed him more than being ignored when he was trying to do some good.

“Will you at least tell me why you were super late, or am I just supposed to assume you were being an asshole?” he tried again. Richie didn’t move except to flip him off and mumble something inaudible into Stan’s pillow. Stan rolled his eyes. “I can’t hear you when you’ve got a facefull of pillow, jackass.”

“I said I couldn’t find my fucking glasses,” Richie huffed, finally sitting up to glare at Stan. He was about to spit out a retort when he finally got a good glance at Richie’s face, and—

“Do you have a fucking black eye?” Stan asked, standing from his spot at his desk to move to the bed. “What happened?”

“Bowers’ thugs,” Richie muttered, glaring down at his hands in his lap. “Turns out, locking Bowers up doesn’t stop the rest of them from being assholes with it out for me. My glasses got thrown somewhere while they were turning me into their personal punching bag and I had to crawl the woods to find ‘em, which was really fucking hard when I couldn’t even see what I was looking for.”

Richie’s voice was bitter, but Stan wasn’t angry anymore. He sat down next to Richie silently, mulling over what he’d said.

“I didn’t know they were still coming after you,” Stan said finally. “I mean, they’re still assholes, but for the most part they laid off on me. That’s seriously rough.”

“Yeah, well.” Richie picked awkwardly at a thread on the edge of his shirt. “They think they’ve got a great reason to shit all over me, so I guess they decided I’m not worth giving up on yet. Just can’t get enough of the Tozier flare.” Even as he joked, his voice sounded dull and tired, as if he’d accepted whatever terrible fate they'd picked out for him. Stan frowned.

“What’s their reason?” he asked, trying to catch Richie’s eye. Richie’s expression darkened further and he seemed to shrink in on himself.

“It’s stupid. Some dumb shit that happened at the arcade last summer. It’s not a big deal.”

“Obviously it is, if they’re still up your ass about it.” Richie shifted, turning away from Stan’s look. Stan heaved a sigh. Gently, he said, “Richie, you know you can talk to me, right? I won’t judge you. We all get picked on by those goons, I’m sure nothing you can say would make it any worse.”

Richie didn’t respond. Stan waited a minute, but when it became clear Richie wasn’t going to elaborate, he stood and walked over to his desk. As he was about to sit down, though, Richie spoke.

“Wait,” he said. Stan turned back around, but Richie was still facing the opposite wall. “It’s, uh. Remember when we were all fighting? And we didn’t see each other for a while?”

“Yeah?” Stan wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but he knew it must be important. Richie had never been the type to share his feelings, and Stan could tell something had to be eating at him. 

“I hung out at the arcade a lot—oh, shut up, don’t laugh at me—and there was this guy and I played with him a lot, but of course I’ve got the shittiest luck and he was Bowers’s cousin, and I asked if he wanted to play another game and I guess I wasn't subtle enough because Bowers was there and he flipped out on me for trying to ‘bone his cousin’ or whatever the fuck, and now all his shitty friends who were there that day have it out for me because I’m some queer or whatever and this is Derry and it’s shitty everywhere but especially here, for fuck’s sake, and usually I’m good at avoiding them but I didn’t see them today until they were right behind me and I was so fucking _scared_, Stan, oh my god.” Richie ended on a choked sob, and Stan realized with a jolt of panic that Richie had started crying at some point in his explanation. He approached Richie carefully and placed his hand on his shoulder. Richie jumped and then curled in on himself, burying his face in his hands as if he expected Stan to hit him. 

“Richie…” Stan said, surprised at the stability of his own voice. Gently, he tugged Richie’s hands away from his face, trying not to wince at the image of the fresh bruises, the tears and vulnerability in his eyes. “It’s okay.”

That was all it took for Richie to break, reaching forward to cling to Stan’s shirt desperately as sobs wracked his body. Stan wrapped his arms around him and held him just as tightly, whispering consoling words into his hair. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Richie’s grip loosened, but he eventually pulled away, scrubbing violently at his face.

“You know I don’t think of you any differently, right?” Stan said gently. 

Richie frowned, but after a moment of contemplation, he nodded. Stan smiled.

“Good, because I don’t. You’re still our Trashmouth, regardless of what you wanna do with it.”

Richie laughed, a watery sound that almost sounded like another sob but was comforting nonetheless. 

“Good one, Stan the man,” Richie chuckled. He took a deep breath, as if bracing himself, and spoke again, voice fragile and quiet. “I think… I think I like Eddie.”

“Okay,” Stan said. “That’s cool.”

Richie looked at him hopefully, and Stan rolled his eyes at him, smiling in a way he hoped was comforting. It must’ve worked, because Richie smiled and laid his head down on Stan’s shoulder. Stan threw his arm around Richie’s shoulders and gave him a friendly squeeze.

“Don’t tell anyone?” Richie mumbled. “Please?”

“Yeah, okay,” Stan agreed. “Just promise not to make me watch you two make out and we’ll be fine.”

Richie laughed.

“Can’t promise too much, Stanley. You know how he’s all over me. He wants a piece of me almost as much as his mom does.”

Stan gagged.

“Don’t even go there, dude. You’re so gross!”

Richie laughed again, sounding almost normal. He raised his hand for a fist bump, and when Stan complied, Richie smiled. Almost inaudibly, he spoke again.

“Thanks, Stan. Seriously.”

“Of course, Richie. And, you know, I’m always here if you need to talk.”

Richie fidgeted awkwardly and then grinned deviously. Stan sighed. That look never meant anything good. 

“Thanks a bunch, Staniel. You know, you can admit your special love for birds anytime now. I’m not going to judge you.”

Stan groaned as Richie began to explain in far too much detail that they _accept all types of love in the Losers Club._ He almost regretted saying anything.

Stan glanced at Richie’s easy smile. His face was littered with bruises and scrapes, but he looked relaxed. Happy. 

He almost regretted it, but not quite.

**Mike  
5.**

It was Richie’s sobs that made it all click.

It was rare for Richie to be quiet, to have nothing to say. He was always ready with a witty retort or a crude joke, and he was never silent. But as they cleaned themselves in the quarry and reflected on what Eddie would’ve thought, Richie was really, truly silent. It was eerie. It didn’t make sense to Mike until Bill asked what Richie thought, and Richie sobbed, and oh. 

It was only natural for everyone to gather around him and offer him whatever comfort they could. Mike held Richie as tightly as he could with everyone else attempting to do the same and realized something that maybe he’d known all along.

_“Hey, Richie,” he’d said on the phone. “It’s Mike Hanlon. From Derry.”_

_There had been a long pause before Richie replied._

_“...Mike?” he’d said at last. “What’s… What’s up? What’s going on?”_

_“Please try not to freak out. I need you to come back home.”_

_“Home?” Richie had repeatedly weakly, as if he could barely understand what Mike was saying._

_“We made a promise, Richie. I’m in the middle of calling the others. I need everyone home as soon as you can be. You—” Mike cut himself off. “You’re in a safe place right now, right?”_

_“What?” Richie asked, sounding completely out of it. “I mean I’m-I’m backstage. I’m going on in, like, three minutes.”_

_“Okay.” Mike heaved a sigh of relief. “Okay, that’s good. I called Eddie right before you and he crashed his car. I wanted to make sure that you weren’t going to do that.”_

_“Eddie…” Richie had whispered, so quiet that Mike could barely hear it. Suddenly, there was a rush of footsteps and the horrible sound of retching, and the line went dead._

That alone should have tipped him off. Or if not that, then the conversation they’d had on the way to the house on Neibolt Street.

_“Hey, uh, Mike,” Richie had begun, slowing his pace so that he and Mike were walking a few yards behind the rest of the group. Eddie had shot them a concerned look but must’ve decided it was okay, because after a moment he had sped back up to the group. Mike turned to Richie._

_“What’s up, Richie? Everything alright?” he had asked. Richie had shuffled awkwardly before asking what had obviously been bothering him._

_“The victims you mentioned at dinner the other day. Was, uh, was one of them a guy? Like—like an adult man? I think… It was taunting me with him, and I wasn’t sure what was up.”_

_“Yeah, one of them was,” Mike sighed. “Adrian Mellon. He was at the carnival with his boyfriend and a group of guys saw them kiss and got pissed off. According to Don, the boyfriend, they beat Adrian up and then threw him off the bridge. Tough shit, man.”_

_Richie was tense next to him. He was quiet for a few moments, and then—_

_“Is that it? That doesn’t sound like It did anything, it just sounds like some poor guy got hatecrimed for having the audacity to exist in this shitty town.” Richie sounded bitter. Mike didn’t blame him._

_“No, It was definitely there. Don went down to help him out of the river and he was freaking out because the assholes hadn’t let Adrian use his inhaler and then threw him off, so he was really scared that he drowned. He said that when he got down there, though, there was a clown holding him and that It ate his heart. The police are calling it shock, but I’m sure you know that’s not true.”_

_Richie didn’t say anything for a long pause. It freaked Mike out a little bit—Richie was supposed to be loud and funny, not quiet and contemplative. It felt foreign in a way that Richie never had, always the biggest in the room. Finally, he spoke. _

_“They didn’t let him use his inhaler?” he asked quietly, voice shaky. He stared ahead at Eddie with a fear in his eyes that Mike couldn’t decipher. _

_“Brutal, huh?” Mike replied, because what else was there to say?_

_“Brutal.”_

It made sense. Of course it made sense. Richie had the endless capacity to care for his friends, but he’d always been focused on Eddie. Calling his name when the fortune cookies attacked. Pulling him close when Pennywise showed up on the projector. Holding him, teasing him, doing whatever to make him laugh or smile or groan or gripe. And Eddie had always taken it in stride, arguing back in a way only he could like he was the only one who understood Richie, who heard the real meanings behind the jokes and the teasing and who surely, surely reciprocated.

Had they ever managed to tell each other how much they loved each other? Had they known? Had they ever had the chance to turn their longing glances into something _real_, something so prominent it was tangible even when unspoken?

Mike hoped so. He hoped Eddie had known, at least, how much Richie loved him before he died. He hoped Richie knew that the feelings were absolutely returned.

He hoped so. But judging by the way Richie had clung to Eddie’s body, gripping him desperately yet still afraid to say what they all knew to be true, he knew deep down that they hadn’t.

**Richie  
+1**

The gravel in front of the kissing bridge crunched under Richie’s feet as he stepped out of his rental car. He wasn’t sure what he was doing, or why he was doing it. He just knew that it felt right.

(He knew well enough why he returned, though, and what his feelings meant. He wasn’t thirteen anymore. He knew exactly how he felt about Eddie. He just didn’t want to admit it.)

It wasn’t hard to find his carving. He’d passed it countless times in his childhood. When he was alone, he would pause to run his fingers over the letters, pretend that Eddie knew about them and had carved them with him. When he was with others, he’d run over them with his gaze, pretending his eyes were his hands and that he could feel the wood beneath him. 

(He was used to imagining the touch of things. He pretended his eyes were his hands when he was looking at Eddie’s hands, too, and imagined that he could feel Eddie’s fingers lace through his. He would never be brave enough to actually do it, but he’d always been said to have an active imagination.)

As soon as he spotted his carving, he dropped into a squat. The letters were worn, faded. It made sense. Richie felt worn and faded, too. That didn’t stop him, though, from pulling his knife out of his pocket and running over the letters with a careful precision. He didn’t want to change their appearance. He wanted this to be a homage to Eddie, to everything he’d meant to Richie. He couldn’t afford to fuck it up. 

Richie wasn’t sure when he started crying. He only noticed it when he realized his hand was shaking too much to safely hold the knife, so he set it down and clung to the post, letting the sobs wrack his body as his mind was filled with _Eddie, Eddie, Eddie._

He remembered the first time he knew with absolute certainty that he loved Eddie. They were thirteen and they’d just finished play-wrestling over a new comic Richie had just bought. Eddie had won and decided to read it right then, before they had even untangled themselves. In that moment, in that mess of limbs with Eddie’s elbow digging into his chest and his foot falling asleep under Eddie’s leg, with the afternoon sunlight hitting him in the way that made Eddie’s freckles glow against his skin, Richie thought to himself, _I love you so much, and I never, ever want to stop loving you._

It was a frightening thought. He’d spent many nights crying into his pillow, wondering _why him, why me, why can’t this be easier?_ But, ultimately, he’d been right. He loved Eddie so fiercely that he didn’t want to tell him, didn’t want to risk losing their friendship over something like that. And yet.

And yet he couldn’t help but regret not telling him. Richie wasn’t stupid. He knew there was something between them. Even when he’d wanted to brush it off as wishful thinking, he knew there had to be _something_ there. It was the only way that everything made sense. He knew that he loved Eddie, and he knew, deep down, that Eddie loved him the same. But he also knew that Eddie had never been able to love that part of himself. He knew that Sonia Kaspbrak had planted the idea in his mind that to love a boy meant to be sick, to suffer, to die. Eddie was strong, and absolutely the bravest person Richie had ever known, but even he wasn’t able to brush all those years of conditioning off.

Richie made up his mind at last. He pulled back from the post and ran his fingers across the letters again, not bothering to wipe the tears from his eyes before he began to speak.

“Hey, Eddie Spaghetti,” Richie murmured, running his pointer finger across the _E_ carved into the wood. “I know that you aren’t, like, actually here, and that you probably never knew that this existed, and that you would hate this more than you hated my jokes about your mom, but I feel like I need to get this out there, and what better place than this completely public bridge, right? It’s, well.”

He huffed a laugh. Even after everything he’d been through, it was a struggle to make the words come. Still, he was made to talk, so talking was what he was going to do, dammit.

“Eds, I have been in love with you since we were thirteen and barely knew what love was. You absolutely shaped my life, and I am so glad I get to remember you this time, what the fuck. You…” The sobs were starting again, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. “You were amazing, Eddie. Absolutely amazing. I love you so much.”

He was having a breakdown while talking to a bridge. It was enough to make him laugh, but the laugh just turned into more sobs as it hit him that Eddie was really, truly _gone_. He would never hear his laugh again, or be forced to use twice as much hand sanitizer in a day with Eddie than he did in a week without, or hear him say _fuck you, I hate you_ and know, deep down, that it meant _I love you but I’m not allowed to say it._ It hurt like a bitch, and he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to heal completely. When he found out Stan had died, it felt like he had a Stan-shaped hole in his heart, but Eddie? He knew his heart was with Eddie, rotting underneath that terrible house on Neibolt Street. His whole heart was missing, and he wasn’t sure it would ever come back. 

Richie wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he finally stood to leave, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He stepped back to observe his handiwork and smiled softly at it, stark and fresh against the old wood.

“See you around, Spaghetti Man,” he said quietly. With one final glance, he sat down in his car and pulled away, and for once, he didn’t look back.

**Author's Note:**

> and then eddie was fine and they got married and lived happily ever after. the end
> 
> please leave a comment + kudos if you enjoyed!


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